


Helping Hand

by Captain_Panda



Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [8]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Tony Stark, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Whump, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26936587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Panda/pseuds/Captain_Panda
Summary: There is no pain Steve cannot conquer, but depression is a special beast. It requires a patient hand.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: Cap'n Panda's Whumptober 2020-21 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953019
Comments: 10
Kudos: 77





	Helping Hand

There were many different kinds of pain. Dislocations, lacerations, contusions, fractures. Toothache, headache, backache, stomachache. Searing, pulsing, numbing, stabbing, scraping, jarring, compressing, tightening. Some pain came with stories. Others came from nowhere.

This was a nowhere kind of pain.

Steve Rogers sat with his pain before a window, watching the world play far below him. It was a nice fall day. The city was a land with few trees, but the longer shadows proved that winter was coming soon. The days would get shorter; the nights would get more restless.

Thus, it became a deliberate choice to sit on the wrong side of the window when the days of play were so limited. 

It would be nice to sit at a café without a jacket and enjoy the sounds of others around him. It would be nice to take a walk through Central Park and look at all the changing leaves. It would be nice to go anywhere at all except the little window to the rest of the world, watching it all happen without him.

But, you see, Steve Rogers was in pain. And it was not the sort of pain he wanted sunshine near, or the sounds of other people. It was not the kind of pain that enjoyed short walks or fresh air, that relished any change in altitude except for maybe lying under the covers and hoping it went away soon.

Yes, that was his pain. It was a miserable sort of pain, one that locked doors and planted itself in front of the window. It made him wonder if something wasn’t very deeply wrong with him, that he could feel such a discomfort. It filled all the space inside him until he could not think of anything but the pain—there was no room in his head for other thoughts.

He simply looked out the window and wondered why on Earth he, of all people, had been visited by this particular pain. Why, of all the people skuttling around—boarding buses, carrying bags, wearing scarves, listening to good music, walking dogs, fixing potholes, and generally being so very alive— _he_ had been overlooked.

He had done a lot of good, too, he was sure—he could prove it, on the days when he was able to think beyond the pain filling all the spaces inside of him. Surely, he deserved to be out-and-about, too, going about his day, maybe picking apples or sketching something nice while he sipped a cup of coffee. He deserved nice things, too.

Right?

Right. It was no question. The pain was just very, very loud. Like a full marching band, parading across his existence, robbing his sleep and clattering noisily across the quietest hours of the day. At first, he felt like he could just wait for it to pass by, as it usually did. But as the hours ticked by and the light became cooler and cooler, he wondered if it was actually going to be _done_ , any time soon. It was fine to pause for a moment to listen to it, but he wanted to cross the road, at some point. He had other things to do.

But, no, the pain was insistent, and it went on, and so he sat in his chair at the window, and hoped the day would be over, soon, at least. Tomorrow would be better, he knew.

It was really quite dreadful to have time alone. He liked time alone—he _needed_ time alone—because he could not always be _on_ , could not always be the _wow_ factor they needed. Sometimes, he was tired, and that simply would not do. The world needed someone like them, but maybe a little better—someone who was not merely exuberant and purposeful, like the people on the ground, but downright _tireless_. Who was vividly alive. Who was always upbeat.

Yes. That was what the world needed. And so, like a stage performer, if he could not fulfill the role, then he needed to step aside and regroup. To remind himself that plenty of people survived in pain like his, and it was no excuse, really. He needed to just work a little harder for what he wanted, like digging a hole in the rain. It didn’t matter if he got nowhere with it, if it wouldn’t be better to wait until the storm had passed—because the storm did not pass.

It just rained, and rained, and rained, even though the sky was very clear and blue.

He thought about getting up for a bite, knowing that it was late enough for hunger to dampen his mood, but it seemed like a lot of effort to find food. And would it really taste that good, when all he could think of was the pain? He suspected it would not, and so he sat with his hunger instead.

For pain-free individuals, food ranged from a necessity to a reward, like a really good meal. He wanted to crave the aromatic symphony of a really good meal—the comfort of others enjoying their own meals around him, the pleasantries of laughter and conversation with someone he loved, and the _food_ , melodic, wonderful—yet he really could not bring himself to shelf the pain at all, could not for a moment ignore it.

So he let the thought fade away, like every other that had passed by in the hours that had transpired. It was simply not worth investing his hope in, only to find himself disappointed. He would not _ruin_ the experience, distracted and unwell.

No, he would simply wait, and then the pain would pass. That was how it should be.

As darkness fell and he did not move, a new feeling crept over him. It was more than just _pain_ , the constant, indistinguishable, hard-to-rate pain that maligned him: it was sadness, too. A profound feeling of loss, that he had sat here while the world was out there, and the good day was gone, and now it was dark out. Oh, the city was lively at night, too, but it was also sleepy, and for many, the workday was done. For many, the day was done, and it was time to reward themselves by going home and enjoying a little time alone.

He had spent the entire day, not enjoying his little time alone. How dreadful, then, to think about the long hours ahead. He thought about climbing into bed and willing himself unconscious—then, at least, he wouldn’t have to _consciously_ deal with the pain. Like a dream, maybe his subconscious mind could take care of it. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He sat by the window, instead, feeling absolutely awful. Halloween was coming soon. That was a nice thought, a good thought. There were feelings attached to Halloween that he should like. The novelty of it, the collective celebration of it, how people made do with what little they had to have a little _fun_. He really missed those days and moments, of having a little fun together.

It would be nice, just for a little bit, to recapture that feeling. He knew he had to try to even hope to succeed, but the effort seemed exhausting. Pain was exhausting. He could fight through it, but fighting for joy seemed like a dreadfully counterproductive enterprise. Would he even enjoy such a hard-won victory? He could not be sure.

The door opened. He had feelings about it, strong feelings, but he kept his gaze on the window. Confronting people was exhausting. Interacting, dealing, pretending he was all right, all of it required a lot of effort. In his own solitary space, he could afford a bit of private melancholy. He deserved as much, after all he’d been through. Didn’t he?

Tony walked over, draped his arms around Steve’s neck loosely, and rested his chin on top of Steve’s head. “Hi,” Tony said. “You wanna grab a bite?”

Steve thought, _No_ , and held his silence for a while, because, with some people, it was impulsive to lie, to knee-jerk his way through questions until they were satisfied. With Tony, it was different—sometimes, he still knee-jerked his way through questions, but most of the time, he did try to be honest. It just seemed like quite a lot to say the words: _Truthfully, I don’t want anything_.

It was nothing against Tony, or food, or the concept of being joyful. It was just the pain speaking, loud and all the way to the corners of his cold fingertips and gnawing stomach. “I haven’t felt like myself today,” he settled on, which was far more revealing but, also, a signal, a way of communicating, _It’s more than yes; it’s more than no_.

Tony kissed the top of his head, squeezed him loosely. “I try to completely reform myself twice a week, minimum,” he said, agreeable, jesting. It reminded Steve of the tone one would use with a hospital patient, assuring them that they would get through it. He sighed a little, unintentional, and Tony added, “It’s not for everyone. Or you. Huh, big guy?”

Steve shook his head, because no, it certainly was not. And Tony knew pain, knew what it was like to struggle with it, to settle scores with it, offering chips to it like a devilish game of poker. _Take this. And this. Please, leave the rest of me be_. The pain was never satisfied, yet it was all he could do to manage it—feed, appease, hope. Feed, appease, hope.

He felt hopeless even trying to explain it. “Sometimes,” he said, bringing up a hand, brushing Tony’s forearm gently, the first human contact all day, “sometimes, I . . . I don’t feel right, Tony,” he said, his voice solemn, lacking any fear or anger or even sadness. There was only a sense of profound weariness, of wanting and wanting and wanting so much to _want_ again, only to find pain in its way. A noisy, messy cloud. Maybe it was just static.

“I know,” Tony said, and he did, that was the beautiful and tragic thing. He did know. He knew, not only from his own experiences with pain, but from their conversations, from those quiet moments just like this, where the pain wanted to be heard.

 _See me. Hear me. Know I exist_.

It was not a living thing, but its _insistence_ on persistence, its refusal to die easily, was like a living thing. It wanted to be known. It was a parasite, consuming its host. And Steve Rogers, for all his strength, was no immortal, no _super-man_.

He was vulnerable to pain that came from nowhere.

Sighing, he squeezed Tony’s arm and said, “I want to,” and didn’t mean, _I want to do it_. He meant, _I want to want it_. Tony nodded, anyway, releasing him and stepping back, waiting. He could still stay—he could, and Tony wouldn’t even look at him with incredulity, asking:

_Why don’t you get up?_

_Because I am in pain._

_I don’t see any wound._

_It’s not that kind of pain_.

Breathing in, he let the weight of Tony’s support—of _I trust you, I love you, I’ll leave you if you say the word_ —infuse him. Tony was very strong. He was, too. They both knew there was no pain that he couldn’t withstand. He’d spent most of his life fighting one form or another, courting it, experiencing the world in all its great and terrible splendor.

This was a different challenge, a longer and quieter pain, but he was stronger than it, too. He was capable of feeling it and gripping the sides of the chair for a moment, bracing himself, before standing.

It was slower, more arduous than it should have been. If he had wanted to source the pain, he may have blamed gravity. But he knew that wasn’t it, that it was inside him, not the Earth, and so he prevailed over it.

Each step was a task, a tremendous exertion, but Tony was there, Tony _wanted_ him to succeed, to make it through, and he did.

They sat and ate at a restaurant with the whole gang, because Clint invited himself and then it was easy to bribe Nat and drag Bruce, and Steve didn’t have to talk nearly as much with the others around. He could focus more on the dishes themselves, savoring their flavor, savoring the distraction, the salvation of a day that had felt truly lost.

He was still in pain, but it felt much easier to bear, surrounded by his family. It was something he felt stronger against as his hunger receded. The restaurant was warm and aromatic, and he enjoyed shutting out the ambient noise and doodling on a napkin with one of Tony’s fancy pens while Clint argued with Tony about Han Solo’s role in the _Star Trek_ trilogy.

It was not a trilogy, Steve knew, but he enjoyed that, too, enjoyed their enthusiasm for fantasy, things that didn’t affect their lives beyond the lively conversations they had. He even let Natasha have a bite of his dessert in exchange for a bite of hers, and then Clint complained loudly about favoritism while Natasha said that he’d made his choices, which happened to be identical to Steve, or Steve was certain he would have insisted on sharing, too.

Really, he liked his family, a lot—liked that Tony knew how to take them places where they wouldn’t have cameras lingering around them, liked that Bruce was stable and quiet for most of the meal, occasionally catching his eye and offering a little smile, like he was glad to see him.

And maybe they were, Steve mused, as he allowed Tony to swap their plates, his golden band a perennial reminder that he had first dibs on any dessert trades with Steve. Maybe they were.

Sometimes, it was very hard to see through the pain, and sometimes it wasn’t so hard at all.

 _It will be okay_ , Steve thought, savoring the delicate and almost light taste of the lemon cream pie Tony had chosen. _One day, it will be easy again_.

Even when it was hard, it was better, not to be alone with it.


End file.
